Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB0ZJ9C81C0WWJFQ4NQ8V3

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the London drizzle, its glow bleeding into the pavement like a half-healed wound. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, leather, the faint metallic tang of a hundred unwashed glasses. The walls were lined with yellowed maps, their edges frayed from decades of handling, and black-and-white photographs of men in suits and women in fur coats stared down from their perches like silent witnesses to secrets long buried. Aurora Carter—Rory, if anyone asked—leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and bitter. She hadn’t been back here in years. The last time she’d stepped through those doors, she’d been twenty-one, still carrying the weight of her father’s disappointment like a second skin, still believing she could outrun the life she’d been handed. Now, at twenty-five, she was a different kind of ghost. The scar on her left wrist, a pale crescent from a childhood accident, was the only physical trace of the girl she’d been. The rest of her had been honed by time, by survival, by the kind of quiet resilience that came from learning how to carry things without ever letting them drop. She wasn’t looking for trouble. She was just passing through, another face in the crowd, another stranger in a city that had long since stopped feeling like home. The delivery for *Golden Empress* had been slow, the streets slick with rain, and she’d taken the detour because the sign had caught her eye. Because she’d recognized the shape of it, the way it hummed with something just beneath the surface. Because, for a moment, she’d wanted to believe she might find something familiar in the noise. Then the door chimed, and the air shifted. A man stepped inside, his presence filling the space before he even took a full breath. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged, even if the rest of the world had forgotten. His auburn hair was streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed, and his limp—just a slight hitch in his left leg—was the only thing that gave away the years he’d spent running from things he couldn’t outrun. He wore a dark coat, the collar turned up against the rain, and when he glanced around, his hazel eyes landed on her like a brand. Rory didn’t look away. Silas Blackwood had always been the kind of man who carried himself like a secret. Even now, years later, she could see the way his gaze flicked over the room before settling on her, assessing, measuring. He didn’t smile. Not yet. That would come later, if it came at all. He ordered a whiskey at the bar, the bartender sliding it toward him without a word. Silas didn’t thank him. He just turned, his coat brushing against the stool beside hers, and said, “You look like hell.” Rory exhaled through her nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “And you look like you’ve been drinking since before I was born.” His lips twitched. “Flattery won’t get you out of this.” “Neither will it get you in,” she shot back, but her fingers tightened around her glass just a little. The way he smelled—woodsmoke and something earthier, like damp stone—was the same. The way his voice had that low, rough edge, like he’d spent too many years shouting over gunfire. She should have known. She should have *seen* him. Silas raised his glass. “To old friends.” “To people who don’t know how to let things go.” He chuckled, the sound warm and unexpected. “You always were a pessimist.” “And you were always full of shit.” Another laugh, this one deeper. “Still am.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar. The kind of quiet that had once been comfortable, back when they’d been young and the world had still felt like it was theirs to shape. Now, it felt like the weight of all the years in between had settled between them, pressing down like a physical thing. Silas took a sip of his whiskey, swirling the liquid before setting the glass down. “You look like you’ve been running.” Rory’s fingers drummed against the bar. “I’m good at it.” “Not fast enough.” She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. “What do you want, Silas?” His eyes darkened, just for a second. “The same thing I always wanted. To know you’re okay.” “And?” “And I don’t.” The words hung between them, sharp and unyielding. Rory’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected that. She’d expected him to ask about her job, about London, about the life she’d built for herself. Not this. Not the way he looked at her like he could see the cracks in her armor, like he could see the parts of her that had been broken and stitched back together wrong. She took a slow breath. “I’m fine.” “Liar.” The word was soft, but it carried the weight of a truth she hadn’t dared admit to herself. Rory’s throat went dry. “You always were good at reading people.” “And you were always good at hiding.” She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t hiding anymore. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the memory of the last time they’d spoken, the last time she’d seen the way his eyes had gone distant, like he’d been looking at something—or someone—beyond her. Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the scar on her wrist. “You still have that.” “Still have what?” “The habit of biting your lip when you’re thinking.” Rory’s fingers twitched. She hadn’t realized she was doing it. “I don’t bite my lip.” “You do when you’re lying.” She exhaled sharply, rubbing her thumb over the crescent-shaped mark. “I’m not lying.” “Then tell me why you’re here.” The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Rory’s pulse hammered in her ears. She could lie. She could tell him she’d just happened to walk in, that she’d been passing by, that she’d been looking for a place to escape the rain. But she knew better than to lie to Silas Blackwood. He’d see right through it. She took another sip of her drink, the whiskey burning its way down her throat. “I needed to see if you were still here.” His expression didn’t change. “I’m always here.” “For who?” For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “For people who need me.” “And do I need you?” Silas didn’t flinch. “You used to.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a lifetime of unspoken things. Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “What happened to you, Silas?” His gaze flickered to the signet ring on his right hand, the silver band catching the dim light. “I got old.” “Bullshit.” He finally looked at her, his hazel eyes sharp with something she couldn’t name. “I got out of the game. Retired. Opened a bar.” “And?” “And I miss it.” “You miss the danger?” “No.” His voice was quiet. “I miss the purpose.” Rory’s breath caught. She knew that look. She’d seen it in the mirror every morning for the past three years. The way she woke up and wondered if she was doing enough, if she was *anything* anymore. The way she looked at her life and saw only the things she’d left behind. Silas must have seen the shift in her expression. “You don’t have to be here, Rory.” “I know.” “Then why are you?” She swallowed hard. “Because I thought…” She trailed off, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. “Because I thought maybe you’d have answers.” “For what?” “For everything.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. He slid it across the bar toward her, the pages yellowed with age. Rory hesitated, then took it. The cover was worn, the leather cracked in places. She flipped it open, and inside, she found a list of names, dates, and places—codes and coordinates, the kind of things that had once meant everything to her. But now, looking at them, she felt nothing. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. “You used to be good at this.” “I’m not anymore.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re not.” The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of what they’d been and what they’d become. Rory closed the notebook, her fingers brushing against the pages like she was trying to memorize the shape of them. “What now?” Silas took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze never leaving hers. “Now? Now we drink. Now we talk. Now we remember.” Rory looked down at her glass, at the amber liquid swirling inside. She thought about the life she’d built, the one she’d carved out of necessity and survival. She thought about the things she’d left behind, the things she’d buried because they were too heavy to carry. She thought about the girl she’d been, the one who’d believed in second chances and happy endings. And then she looked at Silas, at the man who had once been her anchor, her guide through the dark. At the man who had always known her better than she knew herself. She took a deep breath. “What do you remember?” His eyes crinkled at the corners, just slightly. “Everything.” And for the first time in years, Rory believed him.